Brian Colson ran a clip of the vice president, speaking barely a week ago, lamenting that many of our troubles would go away if people could just have a little confidence. “The biggest single problem we have,” the VP had commented, “is that we’ve lost our willingness to trust the people we vote in. Don’t ask me why. Maybe we all see too many conspiracy movies.”
“I guess that’s what it is, Jogina,” Brian told his guest. “Too many movies.”
The lead editorial in The New York Times delivered a lecture on presidential responsibility. “It’s time, Mr. President,” it said, “to go after the truth.” The Miami Herald commented that he probably meant well but was simply out of touch. “What else does Mr. Cunningham not know?” The London Times admitted to being shocked that he had not, when evidence of the backdoor Moon flights—as they were now being called—first surfaced, asked a few hard questions “of the right people.” The only media type he knew of who’d come to his defense was Harold Baskin of Rolling Stone, who suggested that maybe the president had been just as surprised as the rest of us. “It’s not always easy for a CEO to find out what the techs are doing out back.”
“That may be true,” replied Len Hawkins on All-Star Round Table, “but I think I’d rather have a president who’s trying to keep the truth from us, for whatever reason, than one who doesn’t have a clue.”
Lyra was waiting for him when he trudged up to his quarters for lunch after a painfully long morning. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine.” His tone suggested he didn’t need any sympathy.
She didn’t blink. “George, I know you’ve heard me say this before, but I’ll say it again: I’m sorry you didn’t go into accounting.”
“Me, too.”
“You know,” she said, “they’re all idiots.”
“They think I’m the idiot.”
“I’d like to see any of those people, see Blackstone, especially, come in here and try to deal with the problems you have to handle every day. He’d be a basket case by the end of the first week.”
Harry Culver called. Harry was the senior senator from Ohio, who’d encouraged him to go for the White House. Who’d been his mentor when he was just getting started in politics. “Just ride it out, George,” he said. “You’ll be okay. You should be used to stuff like this. As soon as the next scandal hits, it’ll go away.”
But it wouldn’t, and he knew it. The world had changed with the advent of electronic communications. Presidents, beginning with FDR, were on the record. Nixon, despite a long career of postpresidential public service, would never get past You won’t have Nixon to kick around anymore. Or I am not a crook. Bill Clinton, who’d been a major contributor to global stability, would always be remembered as the guy who didn’t have sex with that woman. Jimmy Carter’s crisis of confidence comments, which had morphed into malaise, would live forever. And George W. Bush could spend the rest of his days rescuing kids out of burning buildings, but he’d never live down Mission Accomplished.
For Cunningham, the Bermuda Triangle remark had already become part of the media landscape. Yes indeed, Ask Mr. Blackstone—Worst of all, he was left with no answers. What actually had happened up there, Mr. President?
He had no idea.
—
When he got back to his office, he summoned Ray. “What do we have on Cohen’s briefcase?”
“Nothing yet, George. To be honest, I’m not sure where to begin.”
“Whatever was in there, Ray, Nixon apparently fumbled away his presidency trying to get it back.”
He almost felt sorry for Nixon. He’d watched the old film clips, read Mason’s biography The Plumbers and the President, and understood why the country had turned against him. The truth, he thought, was that Nixon had simply not been emotionally capable of handling the pressures at the White House. Nixon’s basic problem was that he’d had a thin skin, and that’s a serious handicap on the big stage. Especially when you’re sending people into combat. And, of course, those were the Cold War years, when a misjudgment could have killed everyone on the planet.
The president’s cell sounded, the old horse-race theme, “Bahn Frei.” It usually fired up his circulation. But not this time.
The phone was lying on his desk, while the horses tore around the track. Ray disapproved of that particular ringtone. It sent the wrong message, he’d argued. Left people with the impression that Cunningham wasn’t a serious person. But Cunningham was, of course, the president of the United States, and if he wanted horse races—
“Mr. President.” It was Kim. “Admiral Quarles is here.”
The African meltdown was intensifying. Quarles wanted to send in the Marines. The last poll indicated that 58 percent of the country wanted to do just that. It always amazed him how quickly people forget.
“Give me three minutes, Kim. Then tell him to come in.” He turned back to his chief of staff. “Ray, we need to find out what was in that briefcase. Do what you have to.”
“How do you suggest we manage that, George?”
“Track down the people who worked in the DNC office at the time of the break-in.”
“That was Lawrence O’Brien.”
“I know.”
“He’s no longer with us, sir.”
“Damn it, Ray, don’t you think I know that? But there must be somebody who was there. Somebody who remembers what happened. A secretary, maybe.”
“Okay, Mr. President. I’ll do what I can.”
“Make something happen, Ray.”
The admiral arrived with two aides and a complete digital show demonstrating why we had to intervene. People were dying. More massacres were coming. The entire area was falling apart. And there were strategic considerations.
Usually, in military matters, Cunningham maintained a calm demeanor, listened to the arguments, and explained why he was not going to commit U.S. troops. It was a downhill slide. Put those first guys in. That’s the easy part. Then reinforce them. Then watch the other side show remarkable endurance. Fight until the country gets tired of it all. Then pull out and leave those who helped you in said country, your friends and allies, to be killed. The country had done it time and again since the end of World War II. Until it had left the U.S. financially drained and hopelessly divided. Last Days of the Empire, if you believed the title of a current bestseller. “We aren’t playing that game anymore, Admiral,” he said finally, letting his irritation show. “We are staying out.”
Quarles was a small, thin man with an eagle’s beak. His scalp was crowned with thick white hair. He had an uncompromising conviction that the U.S. should use its military to stop the assorted killers in power around the globe. He was unwilling to recognize that Cunningham’s first obligation was to the citizens of the United States. “With all due respect, Mr. President,” he said in an angry whisper, “the blood’ll be on our hands.”
He meant Cunningham’s hands, of course. And he was right. The president would have blood on his hands whichever course he chose. “Thank you for the briefing, Admiral,” he said. “I trust we won’t see any stories in the media about grumbling among the top brass.”
When it was over, and the military contingent was gone, Cunningham switched on the TV and looked at the pictures that were coming in, of towns burned and people brutalized. Usually, it was hard even to find a motive for the killing.
And, of course, rumors of dissension at the Pentagon surfaced that evening.
—
“We can’t just stand by and watch,” said Senator Brig Nelson. Nelson was chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, and a member of the president’s own party. “It’s time we took action,” he continued, speaking on Editor-at-Large. “And do I think the president intends to move against these killers? I don’t like to put words into his mouth, but I’d be shocked if we don’t see something within the next few days.”